


5 Times Cassandra Grieves & 1 Time She Celebrates

by Satine86



Series: Past, Present, Future [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied Relationships, Other, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/pseuds/Satine86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra's life has been tinged with loss, what has she gained?</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times Cassandra Grieves & 1 Time She Celebrates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OrilliaOrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrilliaOrange/gifts).



I.

The first time she grieves, truly grieves, she is too young. Her parents are dead, gone to the Maker's side. She knows what it means, had it explained to her by governesses and nannies, political advisors and courtiers, her uncle and Anthony. Even the king had tried tried to explain it while she held Anthony's hand, his palm growing sweaty. 

She knows what it means though, they are never coming back. She wishes they would. She wishes nothing more than to hear her father laughing with Anthony again, to have her mother tuck her into bed and kiss her forehead one last time.

She wants that, wants it with every bit of herself, but it will never come to pass. They are dead, gone to the Maker's side. 

It is the first night she has slept in her uncle's estate, her new home. She doesn't like it because it isn't home. She scrambles from her bed in search of Anthony's room. Perhaps he would tell her a story about the Pentaghasts of old, slayers of dragons. She loves Anthony's stories, they are almost as good as Papa's were. 

Cassandra is surprised to find him sprawled out in front of the hearth, a bottle in his hand. She has no idea where he had gotten it, or why. 

“Little sister!” he slurs when he spots her, waving her over. “Little sister, come sit with me.” 

“What are you doing?” she hisses, as if anyone can hear them. If anyone would care.

“I am toasting our parents.” He pauses, brows furrowing as he thinks. “I am toasting us! We're all we've got now. You and me. Me and you. For always, okay?” 

His words make her smile, and she settles on the rug next to him. He grins at her, reaches out to sloppily muss her hair. When his head falls back to the floor, it only takes a few moments before he is asleep. She reaches out, takes the bottle from Anthony's slack fingers and holds it up.

“For always,” she repeats and takes an experimental sip. Whatever is in the bottle, it burns all the way down, and she chokes. She does not like it, does not know why Anthony would drink as much as he has. 

In the morning when he is bleary eyed and slow, when he gets a lecture from their uncle, she learns it is called 'whiskey' and she vows never to drink it. Not even when she grieves. 

 

II.

 

She grieves again a few years later, and still is too young. Now Anthony is dead, gone to the Maker's side. With their mother and father. And she is left alone. 

Her grief is all consuming, a violent, hot thing that burns inside her belly. She wants to forget, to stop feeling. Though nothing she does can assuage the pain, nothing can stem the anger that boils within her. Anthony had said forever, Anthony had promised not to leave her. 

They had made him break his promise, they had sliced him down and she hadn't been able to do anything about it. She vows to make them pay, to hurt them like she hurts now. She vows never to be helpless again. 

Only she wishes to forget, wishes she were numb. As she sits at the dinner table with her uncle, she thinks she finally understood why Anthony drank whiskey when their parents died. The thought sends a pang through her.

She looks up when her uncle slides an elegant goblet in front of her, the stem encrusted with jewels. The candlelight makes has the jewels glittering up at her, merrily twinkling. She wants to smash it. Watch as the goblet shatters like the pieces of her heart. 

“What is this, uncle?” she asks softly, voice rough.

“It is wine, child. We will have a toast to your brother. Tomorrow we will visit the necropolis.” He holds up his goblet, nods for Cassandra to mimic him. “To Anthony.”

“To Anthony.” The words almost catch in her throat, tears threatening. She takes a sip of the wine, it is sweet and not at all like she remembers the whiskey to be. It does not burn, but soothes. Still, she wishes for the whiskey. Wishes for any connection to Anthony. 

 

III.

When she experiences loss again, there is no time to grieve. Not properly. Not the way she wishes she could. There are too many things that must be done, too people that she must save. She manages a silent prayer after Byron falls, then flees with the mage in tow. 

It isn't until later, after she has met with Beatrix and been appointed to a position she's not certain she can fulfill, let alone deserves, that she stops to grieve her loss. 

She is alone in her room, silently remembering Byron and wondering why those she cares about are always taken from her. Galyan appears then, a bottle of fine brandy stolen from the celebration clutched in his hand. The other holds two glasses that are just as fine.

“I thought I'd find you here,” he says. He sets the bottle and glasses on the nightstand, pulls a chair over to sit across from her. She is thankful for his presence, as ridiculous as the thought might seem. She has gotten used to him. Comfortable. 

“Byron should be here,” she says, voice catching. 

“I know.” Galyan frowns deeply, shoulders sagging a bit. “But we're here, aren't we? We it owe it to him to continue. Besides, you're the Hero of Orlais. You have responsibilities now.”

She wrinkles her nose in distaste, “Don't remind me.” 

He laughs, loud and happy, and reaches for the brandy and glasses. He pours them each a generous amount of the tawny liquor. Cassandra takes the glass offered her and meets his gaze. 

“To Byron, and those we have lost.” 

Cassandra smiles a little sadly, touches her the rim of her glasses to his and takes a sip. The drink is strong, stronger than she would have thought and a pleasant warmth settles inside her chest. It is comfortable. 

“Thank you, Galyan.”

 

IV.

She does not grieve again for many years, which she supposes is a blessing. Though it makes everything that happens at the Conclave hurt all the more. She watches as all of Justinia's plans for peace fall into ruin. She feels helpless and angry in a way she hasn't felt in so many years. Not since Anthony's death. She is sad too. A deep, exhausting grief she has never felt before. It gnaws at her, tearing at the frayed edges of her soul. 

She sits with Leliana and they discuss the future, their plans, as the Right and Left Hand of the Divine. It is business. For that, Cassandra is oddly grateful. Then Leliana produces a bottle of sweet liqueur, and they spend the rest of the time mourning and toasting those who had lost their lives. It is late in the evening when she stumbles toward her bedroll, or perhaps it is early in the morning? She can no longer tell, not with the sickly green glow of the rent in the sky. 

As she passes by the fires, she dimly notices Varric is still awake. Still there. That surprises her. She almost wants to speak with him, ask him if this is how he felt when Kirkwall fell. But she continues past him, guilt gnawing at her because she had taken him away. Pulled him from his home when it needed him the most. That is not something easily forgiven.

It is only when she is alone, head nestled against her pillow, that she lets the tears come. She weeps for what has been lost. She weeps for what is to come. She weeps for Justinia and Galyan. She weeps for herself, and all she has lost. 

 

V.

 

When the Order falls, she grieves for Daniel… for all her fellow Seekers who had lost their lives. She is more weary than she has ever felt in all her life. She feels much older than her years, worn and hollowed out. She isn't sure how to honor the Seekers, isn't sure how to remember them.

Before she would have prayed, but she wonders now if prayer even works? Was the Maker even listening anymore? She is pulled from her thoughts when a flask is thrust before her face. She looks up to find Varric standing before her desk. He lifts his brows, entreating as he wiggles the flask.

“You look like you could use a drink, Seeker.” 

Cassandra shakes her head. “I do not know what I need.” 

“Well, try this. It'll help.” She takes the flask gently, their fingers brushing. Without pausing she tilts her head back, takes a swig. It's a heady drink, strong and full of flavors she cannot place. She likes it though.

“Marcher whisky, well, Starkhaven whisky. One thing I'll grant them, they make good booze.” Varric pauses, takes a seat across from her. “If you ever meet Sebastian, don't tell him I said that.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “Your secret is safe with me.” 

“Good to know.” He smiles gently, nods at the flask. “Go on, drink up. I think the situation calls for it.”

Another sip of the whisky, and she already feels a fuzziness tickling the back of her head. The drink is nice, soothing and pleasant, like a blanket protecting her. It reminds her of Varric. The thought is an odd one, and she doesn't dwell. 

“Talking might help too, if you want.” He lifts his shoulders. “Despite what you might think, I'm actually very good at listening.” 

“I'm not certain what to say. It is like losing my family all over again. I have done this too many times, I do not wish to do it again.” She stops and wipes at her eyes. “I am just so tired, Varric, and so alone.”

“Hey,” his voice is soft as he reaches out, places his hand over hers. “You're not alone, Cassandra.” 

Meeting his gaze, she manages a watery smile, turns her hand and squeezes his fingers. “No, I suppose I'm not.” 

 

1 Time She Celebrates….

 

The celebration spills out from the main hall, across the courtyard and into the Herald's Rest. It is a wonderful time, everyone in good spirits after so much work.. so much loss. It is good.

Cassandra has a grand time. The evening is spent with friends, ale and wine flowing freely. She laughs with Josephine and Leliana, arm flung around the latter as they recite a particularly tawdry limerick that has Bull and Sera in stitches. 

She shoves Cullen when he gets too cocky after winning at darts, ruffling his hair while he protests. She dances with Dorian, one of the few they both know the steps to, giggling like mad every time they mess up. 'I'm supposed to lead,' he cries. 'Then lead!' she replies.

Even though Blackwall has yet to fully win back her trust, she hugs him, proud of their victory and knows he should share in the glory as well. She shares a drink with Vivienne, toasting the future and all that is to come. 

She sits and laughs with the Inquisitor like sisters might. Cole pops in and out, bringing with him candies and treats for them to share. It is a good night, the best Cassandra has had in so long. 

As the night wears on, Cassandra's accent has grown thicker with each drink. To the point the Inquisitor has her repeating certain words. She wrinkles her nose, but agrees nonetheless. 

Her head is fuzzy, her body warm. It is all rather pleasant. Just like the night has been. Though there is something absent from it all. It is a distinct lack that she does not like. She has not seen Varric at all. It seems wrong she has not spoken him once. 

It will not stand, she decides. 

“Where is Varric?” she asks, frowning. The Inquisitor giggles, mutters something about pouting to Sera, who in turn chokes on her ale. That confuses Cassandra, but she pushes the thought aside. She needs an answer to her question. 

“He's been in and out all night. I'm surprised you haven't noticed,” Cullen says. 

“Any particular reason you're looking for our resident author?” Dorian eyes her carefully, and Cassandra kicks his foot under the table. 

“No,” she says slowly, careful to enunciate her words least the Inquisitor start teasing her again. The Inquisitor still giggles. “I only wonder where he is.” 

“I see.” Dorian gives her a knowing look. Though she doesn't know what he knows. Or what he thinks he knows for that matter. 

Cassandra shoves back her chair and stands slowly. “I will go find him,” she announces. 

“And what will you do when you find him?” the Inquisitor asks. 

“I will--” She stops, and thinks. An idea flickers to life, and she shares it immediately. Least she forgets. “I will finally touch his chest hair.”

That sends everyone into a fit of laughter, and Cassandra can't begin to figure out why that should be so funny. She had thought about it before. Surely they all must be a little curious as well? Though it appears none of them will stop laughing long enough to answer her. Making a noise in the back of her throat, she departs without another word. 

It's cool outside, refreshing, and she takes a moment to fan her warm cheeks. She glances around, and wonders where she might find Varric. There are revelers down below, and she wonders if he is there. 

Cassandra turns around, starts toward the steps leading to the lower level. That is when she crashes into Varric, coming down the stairs from the parapets. Once they gain their footing, Cassandra with her hands braced on his shoulders, his firmly planted on her waist, she can't help but grin.

“Varric!” she says. “I was looking for you.” 

“Were you?” He clears his throat, steps back. 

“Yes. There is a party. You should be there.” 

“I was there. You just didn't notice.” 

Cassandra frowns. “You were being sneaky then. I only noticed your absence.” 

Something flashes across his face, and she's not entirely certain what it is, unable to fully study it before it's replaced with a smile. “I was documenting things, someone needs to keep track of it all. I seem the best suited for the job.” 

“Well, come inside now, and sit with your friends.” She reaches out, loops her arm through his and starts pulling him toward the tavern. 

“You're drunk, Seeker.”

“So what if I am?” She stops, raises an eyebrow. “My suggestion is still a good one, is it not?” 

Varric looks up at her for a moment, then shakes his head. “I suppose I can't argue.”

“Good!” she crows, pleased with her victory. Before they enter the Herald's Rest, Cassandra stops and turns on him. 

“Varric?” she whispers, hand shielding her mouth. 

“Yeah, Seeker?” he whispers back, leaning in as if sharing a secret. 

“I wish to ask something of you.”

“Shoot.” 

Cassandra sucks in a deep breath, her eyes darting down to his chest before back up to meet his confused gaze. “May I touch your chest hair?” 

Varric chokes on air, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “What?” he finally sputters. 

“I am only curious,” she says slowly, “if it is as soft as it looks. I have wondered it often.”

Varruc scrubs a hand down the side of his face. Shakes his head. “Tell you want, Cassandra? Why don't you ask me again when you're sober?” 

She considers his words for a moment, then thrusts out her hand. “It is a deal.” He takes her hand, shakes it slowly. 

Cassandra grins, loops her arm through his again as she pushes open the door of the tavern. The room is loud and warm and pleasant. Next to her, Varric is comforting and soothing, a steady presence she had missed all night.

“Now come along, Varric,” she says and pulls him inside. “Tonight we celebrate!”


End file.
